


it’s a great place

by dhils



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, just a blowie nbd, stand witness on that DICK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 13:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16535051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhils/pseuds/dhils
Summary: Summer let this thing, whatever it was between them, taper off right when Connor thought it could be something. And now Freddie’s right here and he—just.





	it’s a great place

**Author's Note:**

> i really wanted to write something but y’ardy know i don’t fuck with plot. so here’s............this.......... connor blows his boy’s mind and that’s what’s up

Freddie’s new apartment is spacey. 

It’s bigger, a lot higher in the air, with floor to ceiling windows that steal Connor’s breath straight out of his lungs. 

He realizes a little dumbly, after staring out the window for a few moments, that he’s doing just that. Staring. Down at the small specks of light below them, gold scattered like glitter along the bustling streets of Toronto. It’s stupid maybe, but it feels a little like they’re disconnected from the world up here, isolated to their own lives, away from everything else. It’s nice.

He doesn’t come back to his senses until he hears to TV flick on from behind him, the lull in the room immediately filling in with rapid commentary bouncing off the big speakers. Freddie laughs when Connor turns around to look at him, something sweet and deep from his chest. It’s easy on the ears, dripping like honey. 

“Don’t tell me we’re spending the one night we have away from hockey watching more hockey,” Connor says, with the roll of his eyes. He ends up sitting down next to Freddie when he pats the couch anyways, just for the sake of having something warm to lean up against. 

“You have any better ideas?” Freddie’s elbow brushes his ribs. It’s not malicious in the slightest, not a knock or even a jab, but Connor still feels a small jolt underneath his skin. He’s still getting used to this, to having Freddie without really having him. To hanging out without the fooling around. It’s not easy, especially not when Freddie can read him like a book.

“I dunno, man, anything but this,” Connor insists, waving his hand at the TV. “We spend fucking forever on the ice throughout the year, right? You’d think a guy like you would get sick of it.” 

“Not when you’re living the dream,” Freddie says, a little smile quirking up the corners of his lips. When he reaches up to stretch his arms, his shirt rides up his torso ever so slightly, and Connor thinks it’s perfectly fine that his focus immediately zeros on that small slit of skin that shows up. He looks away, but not without having to internally fight himself on it. That might be a problem. “Besides,” Freddie adds, settling his arm over the back of the couch, “watching the other guys play helps you scope out competition.”

“God, are you ever not thinking about hockey?” Connor says, and he can feel the bitterness roll off his tongue. He doesn’t mean for it to come off as sour as it does, because Connor _knows_. He knows when Freddie doesn’t have his game face on, and he wants that. 

It makes his toes curl just thinking about it, letting Freddie fuck him in his new place, just to break it in. It’s what they did last time, when Freddie fucked him into a bed that felt too fucking small, especially with Connor’s head hanging off the foot of it. They were loud, louder than they had to be, but the mattress was squeaky and Connor just couldn’t help himself. 

He’s pretty sure there was room for a noise complaint at some point, but the neighbours were good people, even with everything they had to put up with. 

Freddie glances over at him with a little smile. “Will you shut up if I grab us some drinks?” He offers, and honestly, Connor’s immediately interested.

“You gonna bartend for me?” Connor teases, watching with sly eyes as Freddie laughs him off and heads over to the kitchen. 

It’s pretty, all marble countertops and sleek looking cupboards. Connor’s half expecting Freddie to fix up something fancy, with little umbrellas and flavoured ice cubes, but he’s still not surprised when Freddie tosses a can of beer in his direction. He looks content, as if he’s the one who brewed it.

“Huh,” Connor says, popping the tab. He listens to beer fizz before downing a drought.

“Not impressive enough for you?” Freddie asks, taking a sip from his own can. 

On screen, his eyes lock onto Rask making a diving save, and Connor idly wonders if that works him up. If seeing the Bruins hit highs game after game fucks with him. If anything, Connor’s curious. 

“No, no, real impressive,” Connor says. “You’re a professional, enter one of those bartending competitions. Nobody stands a chance.”

Freddie scoffs. “Fuck off, you nearly dropped the can when I passed it to you.”

“Did not,” Connor argues, and takes a sip from his beer as if to punctuate it. It’s not going to get him drunk, but he wants to feel the edges of it at least. To be buzzed right now would be perfect, loose and floaty, and not constantly thinking about having Freddie’s hands on him. Or the heat of their thighs pressed together. 

“Sure thing.” Freddie jostles him, this innocent little nudge, and Connor thinks if he was still eighteen it’d probably give him a fucking boner or something. God, he’s done for. 

 

 

“Y’know what.” 

Freddie blinks at him, warm brown eyes that Connor isn’t sure he’ll ever get enough of. He still can’t get himself to hold his gaze for longer than a few seconds. “Yeah?”

“We’re gonna win you that fucking Vez this year.” Connor’s not sure where it comes from, whether it’s from watching the saves on screen or just the frustration of going another year without Freddie being nominated. It burns into the pit of his stomach, having a goaltender that’s so goddamn worthy, so _good_ , and yet so far from getting the recognition he deserves. 

“Connor,” Freddie says. It’s a little cautionary, but there’s something light in his tone. Like he could only wish. Which isn’t true. Because if anyone deserves that goddamn trophy, it’s Freddie. 

“No, really.” He throws back the last of his drink, setting the can down on the coffee table. “What’s the one player a team can’t win without? The goalie, right?” Connor puts a hand on his thigh, because he feels ballsy, and he can barely remember the flex of muscles underneath his fingers. He forgot how much he needed this. “You matter to all of us, Fred. You deserve this.”

“It’s not up to us,” Freddie says, a little ruefully. He’s not the kind to lose hope, not this quickly anyways, so he gives Connor a stiff nod. “It’s not as easy as trying your best. You could—anyone could give it their all. But it’s the stats that count.”

Freddie still hasn’t pulled Connor’s hand off his thigh, and it makes sparks skitter down his spine. “So what? We can still try.” And when he gives the muscle under his palm a squeeze, the other shoe finally drops.

“Connor,” Freddie repeats, it’s a little rougher this time, still a warning. And Connor just—he’s not sure what he wants anymore. 

Summer let this thing, whatever it was between them, taper off right when Connor thought it could be something. And now Freddie’s right here and he—just. 

“Let me,” Connor says, and even if he cuts himself off, he thinks the message gets across. Something flashes over Freddie’s face and if Connor didn’t know any fucking better he’d think this was his in. But.

“Fuck,” Freddie breathes out, and scrubs a hand over his face, his fingertips skidding across the front of his hair. 

And Connor thinks, fuck it, time for honesty. If it’s ever going to come in handy, it’s now. “I wanna blow you,” he says, and he knows he’s swaying into Freddie’s space, but he can’t help himself. 

Connor’s not sure if he’s imagining the way Freddie’s legs look a little more spread out when he sets his drink down, but it catches his attention anyways. 

“Yeah, just—yeah,” Freddie tells him, and Connor doesn’t waste a second before slipping to his knees, afraid of facing a change of heart. He hits the floor with a little thump, and he isn’t sure if he’s ever been more grateful for carpeting.

His hands are quick, enough that the second his fingers catch on the buttons of Freddie’s jeans, they’re popped open, undone just like the zipper. And all he hears the second his lips wrap around him is this quiet, “Shit.” 

Connor usually likes mouthing at the head for a good while, overstimulating his sensitive spots before taking him in, but this time he goes as far as he can right off the bat. He feels Freddie’s dick bump the back of his throat and Connor swears if he wasn’t prepared for it, he’d start coughing right there. 

Like the first time he blew him, so, so eager to please, to get Freddie off and feel his fingers in his hair. But, like, Connor wasn’t as experienced as he is now. And trying to deep throat turned into him gagging with tears spilling down his face. It still had Freddie coming, and Connor’s pretty sure it was the determination that did it for him. Maybe a little bit of the tears.

But now Connor knows exactly what Freddie wants. He knows the best way to get him there, knows just what he likes and doesn’t like. And, like, utilizing that knowledge always comes in handy, especially when the little voice at the back of his head tells him to press Freddie’s hips down against the couch, to moan around his dick when fingers grab at his hair. 

He knows Freddie’s getting closer with every bob of his head, but he doesn’t make a move to pull off, because he wants him to come in his mouth, just so Freddie can see the line of his throat work as he swallows it all down. He wants Freddie to mess him up some, in a way that’s burned into Connor’s tastebuds. 

So he keeps going, keeps his tongue pressed flat to the underside of his dick, making small little noises here and there. It works, always does.

“Connor, your mouth,” Freddie says, his breaths clipped. “You’re so good, every fucking time.”

And Connor feels a little tingle of warmth whenever Freddie praises him, and this isn’t any different.

 

 

When Freddie comes, it’s with this wounded groan, and Connor thinks he can make out his name, but he’s all too caught up in how much he’s missed this. How Freddie’s gentle with pulling him off even after Connor keeps sucking. Or how he strokes a thumb over his bottom lip. And Connor knows what he looks like, he wants to stay here for as long as he can, just so Freddie has the imagine etched into the back of his mind.

There’s something sweet in his eyes, something Connor’s wanted back so fucking bad, and he doesn’t even need to get off. Just knowing that he did it for Freddie is enough.

“Here,” Freddie says, and just like that he’s helping Connor into his lap. 

“‘m good,” Connor insists. “Don’t worry.” 

He stills grinds into Freddie’s hand when he palms the front of his pants, slinging his arms over his shoulders. As in _broad_ shoulders he’s missed the hell out of touching. “You sure you don’t need help with that?”

Connor thinks, if he tried hard enough, he’d be able to deny it, but then Freddie pops the button on his jeans and he’s a goner. “Fuck, please.” He presses their foreheads together, arching into the tight grip Freddie’s got around his dick. And he doesn’t even pull him out of his boxers, still tucked away, but Connor swears it’s still the best he’s had since they last hooked up. 

Which—maybe it’s a little sad, if he thinks about it. But he’s not thinking. He crossed that bridge a while back. 

It doesn’t take very long, not after Connor spent all summer working himself up for this.

He ruins the inside of his boxers, and half of him is a little disgusted, but the other half is floating, clinging to Freddie like he’s afraid to let go. Like if he does, he’ll lose him. And fuck him, right? That could very well be the case.

But this is okay. As long as they have this, it’s okay.

 

 

Freddie lets him stay the night, and Connor doesn’t even have to ask for a change of clothes before Freddie’s lending him a tattered Leafs tee and some soft grey sweats. 

Another thing Connor doesn’t ask for is sleeping in the same bed as Freddie, but they walk right past the guest room, and he isn’t sure if he’s ever been so fucking relieved to see stacks of cardboard boxes marked with _master bedroom_ in black sharpie. 

Sleeping is so easy when he’s tucked up next to Freddie, holding onto the arm thrown over the side. It’s like muscle memory, melting into the slow rhythm of Freddie’s breaths—one, two, three. And Connor isn’t sure when it happens, but he loses count the second he drifts off. It’s fine.

 

 

They still haven’t kissed.


End file.
